


The Journey Begins

by keiliss



Series: Gifties: Christmas 2016 [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Annoying Family, Family, First Meetings, Gen, being young and angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: Erulisse asked for:  if you're so inclined, I would love a young Fëanor on a journey before his marriage and his family.Okay. First Fëanor, first YoT ever.  Wait, how did I get here?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erulisse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse/gifts).



> I offered to write Christmas gifts this year, which were due on Christmas Day but most grew way past their expected (under 700 word) length so one a day till Twelfth Night works better.
> 
> Not one thing has turned out as planned this year, why did I expect this to? *g*

There was a time when the royal palace in Tirion had been home to Fëanáro in more than just name, a calm place where he could explore new concepts, learn new skills from the best Tirion had to offer, and even from beyond Tirion, as he tried to fill his voracious hunger for knowledge. It was where those who cared for his needs had been polite and considerate and his father was always available at the end of each day, and sometimes during the day as well.

All that had changed of course when his father brought That Woman into their home. Fëanáro avoided her name as far as possible: Indis. What kind of a sound was that? Flat and hissing, a fitting name for a pale, vapid presence. And then the babies had started to arrive. Somehow when his father took a second wife, it had not occurred to him that they would do what was needed to make offspring, but there you had it, she seemed to be breeding every time he turned round. 

Today had been the end. The two older brats got into a tussle over some toy, screaming at each other, Findis trying to hit Fingolfin over the head of course, because she was a bully by nature, and Fingolfin wailing for their nurse rather than sorting it out himself. And then the little plump one, Írimë or whatever her name was, tried to reach for one of the fish and fell into the fish pond and no one even noticed in the uproar. 

In the end he had to go after her himself, wading through water with fish brushing against his legs, looking for the crumbs they were always fed. When he hauled her out of the pond she hung motionless in his hands for a few moments, not breathing. He had a fleeting thought that her spirit might have gone to trouble his mother’s peace, but then she started coughing and spluttering and by the time he put her on the paving, lying on her side, it was clear she would be with them for a while longer. Till the next accident, anyway.

He was about to make his escape into a sudden, ear splitting silence when That Woman herself came swooping down on him, sniffling wetly. She did not quite fling herself into his arms, but grabbed his shoulders and exclaimed, “What a wonderful brother you are, saving your baby sister like that. I couldn’t believe what was happening – how could her nurse have allowed her to fall in? Thank the Mighty you were here…”

Fëanáro had pulled himself away from her in a hurry: he was wet enough from mid thigh down, no need to get his shoulder soaked as well. “Madam, you need to have them watched. They run wild like woodland animals,” he had snapped, almost stepping on Írimë as he moved away. She was the one he disliked least so far, a bright, determined little presence, and it would have been a pity to break her so soon after rescuing her. Striding to his quarters he had stripped out of the wet clothes, changed into something more appropriate for a country ramble, and left the palace before his father could also come and tell him what a hero his wife said he was. He had no wish for praise based on her good word.

He left Tirion behind, taking the path that led through the Gap, not the roadway people normally used but the little trail that ran alongside it, first used before the Valar had given permission for an actual paved road to lead into their realm. The road made it more convenient to send them gifts, he supposed, and travel inland to take part in the festivals praising their bounty. He liked the half overgrown trail with its tall grasses and almost invisible little flowers. Bees hummed along about their business, and the air was warm and clean with natural scents, clearing the smell of the scented oils She liked to burn from his sinuses. 

The afternoon was sinking down from gold to that strange nameless shade it reached just before the Mingling. There were homesteads not far up ahead and Finwë’s son could ask shelter for the night of anyone, but he was still not in the mood for people, nor to explain what he was doing from home at this time of day without even food or a cloak for when the air cooled, as it did under Telperion’s reign. He thought of finding himself a little hollow off the trail and out of sight of the road to rest, but in the end common sense prevailed: he kept going until well into the Silvering before he finally saw a welcoming light. Putting on his most haughty expression and an attitude that would dissuade the most thick skinned from asking questions, he knocked on the door. 

The door opened to reveal a fair haired man, tall and thin and Vanyar to his finger tips. He looked at Fëanáro in amazement for a moment and then said, “Good sir, would you be lost? This is the road to Valmar indeed, if that is your destination.”

Fëanáro flicked an eyebrow. “I would hope I know which road I am on. I am the king’s son, Fëanáro, and am seeking sustenance and somewhere to rest. If it is not possible, I will go on to the next house.”

The man stepped aside hastily, making a welcoming gesture with his arm. “Your highness, come indoors. We have already eaten but my wife will be pleased to put together something light for you. It is a great honour to have you in our home. When you have rested perhaps you could tell us the news. How goes it with our dear Princess Indis?”

Even here there was no escape.

Fëanáro left early the next day with some excuse about paying his respects to the houses of the Mighty, a thing that had never once occurred to him though it was what his father might expect of him if he planned to visit Valmar. He skirted the town when he finally reached it, trying to stay inconspicuous without looking shifty. With no destination in mind, just ‘away from the palace’, he had an instinct to try and borrow a horse and once more find his way to the Gardens of Lórien, but he knew from bitter – very bitter – experience that he would only be turned away once more. He wasn’t welcome in the place of rest and restoration where his mother’s body was said to lie. Part of him was angry with this woman he had never known, who had birthed him and then just lain down and given up, and the anger made him feel guilty, and guilt implied fault and he was disinclined most days to accept a fault in himself. Personal fault was a judgment, not like an experiment in blending metals that had gone wrong.

Thoughts of metal coincided with where he found himself, which was near the entrance to Lord Aulë’s vast courtyard, a place of legend where stars were said to hang from delicate spun silver webs and cunningly wrought lamps filled alcoves with golden light. For a long moment Fëanáro hesitated. It had been in his mind for a while now to see if the Smith would be willing to help him increase his understanding of metals. Not yet, a voice deep within said. This was not the time. Soon, but not now. 

With two destinations closed to him, he set off, still on foot, to take a distant look at the place that fascinated him most in this heartland of their world, the great Ring of Doom close by the sacred space occupied by the Two Trees. No one had ever told him it was out of bounds, but the Máhanaxar was a place generally avoided, something to do with the way the air sat close to the ground, they said. The idea of ‘air sitting close to the ground’ intrigued Fëanáro anyhow, and he changed direction, heading towards the Trees, the source of all light and beauty in Valinor. It was already past the middle of the day but he could still not look directly at Laurelin.

In the end he only saw the Máhanaxar from a distance, looking through gaps in the foliage and between the white marble pillars that surrounded it. Nothing prevented him from going closer but like all the others before him, driven there by curiosity, he found a deep sense of foreboding overtaking him that increased as he moved closer. A lesser person might have experienced it as fear: for Fëanáro it was just a quiet suggestion that he might not wish to intrude on a space where he had no business. That and – some other feeling that he could not put a finger on, some voiceless impulse that whispered a warning he could not interpret.

Giving up, he retraced his steps until he found a spot not far from Ezellohar but out of sight of the golden gates of Valmar where he could sit and rest and watch the Trees without being blinded, watch how Telperion’s light began to be visible while Laurelin’s slowly sank and how the very colour of the sky changed with each degree of blending. Everything, sky, the soft grass, the little fountain at the foot of the hill was subservient to those tones of the light. Soon they would reach the place where their strength was equal, when the light was at its purest, neither silver nor gold, the colour of perfection….

“Are you going to sketch them?” 

The voice was unexpectedly low for a female and belonged to a girl with rosy cheeks and a lot of wavy hair almost chestnut in colour, a rich warm brown with unusual red lights. 

Fëanáro frowned. “Why would I be doing that?” he asked in what he hoped was an off putting tone. The last thing he wanted was to have his peace disturbed, not with the beginnings of an idea sitting just there beneath his consciousness.

She shrugged. “You were staring so hard at the Trees I could think of no other reason.”

“I was just looking at them. I’ve never had time to do that before.” He had no idea why he was explaining to her but it seemed somehow important. She looked like the kind of person who would insist on explanations if you did not offer them first.

Surprisingly, she nodded as though this was the most natural thing in the world. “I tried to sculpt them once and I watched them for a long time,” she admitted, sitting down with a firm ‘plop’ beside him. “But there is something about them, something that defies being represented.”

“You’re a sculptor?” he asked, surprised into curiosity. She looked more likely to be Noldor than Vanyar, but even then sculpture was more a man’s preserve, needing not just the eye of an artist but also physical strength. Then he saw the way the muscle slid beneath the skin of her forearm and the line of tendon and realised strength was not just the preserve of men.

“I work in metal at times but my first joy is stonework,” she replied with equanimity. “I learned from my father.”

“Your father’s a smith then?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself by this girl – she could be no older than him – who could be so open and at peace with herself in the company of a stranger.

“Indeed he is,” she said, laughter in her voice. “His name is Mahtan and he was one of Lord Aulë’s most prized students in his time. That is where he is now, discussing a project and seeking advice.”

“I had thought to call on Aulë,” Fëanáro admitted. “I have an interest in metalwork. But I came here instead.”

“He doesn’t always take students,” the girl said. “You need to show him great promise first. I do not say this to put you off, merely to advise.”

He slanted an eyebrow at this. “Perhaps for others. But I am Fëanáro, son of the king, and it is said that everything I turn my hand to shows more than great promise.”

She studied him. “I have seen the king before,” she said. “You do not favour him in your looks. So you just came up here to look at the trees? You had no other plan?”

He wanted to tell her about the Ring of Doom, but he had not dared approach it. And then he wanted, unbelievably, to tell her about visiting Lórien before and being turned away. Instead he shrugged. “I was deciding on a direction. I thought to go and find some place I had not seen before.”

“Oh, you want to have an adventure,” she said, satisfied. “I also like doing that. I walked right up the coast once to where the ground is cold underfoot and the only light is from the stars and the foam on the sea.”

Fëanáro looked at her cautiously. She did not seem like a teller of tall tales, but… “You went north on your own?”

She laughed, a real, full-bodied laugh. “No, of course not. My father would have been upset with me. No, I went with him. There was metal he said had fallen from the sky – though how that can be I have no idea – and he wanted to study it so we went to find it.”

“And – did you?” Fëanáro was already thinking how he could get a look at this artifact.

“We found something that was different, iron and yet not how iron normally smells. My father took it to show Lord Aulë and he kept most of it, giving my father a tiny piece to try smelting.”

“Of course,” Fëanáro said with a touch of acid. “It’s Lord Aulë should have had the smaller portion, not your father who took the trouble to go and find it.”

“Hush,” she said. “It’s no matter now. It was a time ago and the properties of the iron were no different to what he already knows. I think he was disappointed.”

Fëanáro huffed but there was nothing to be gained by pursuing it other than this self-assured girl’s displeasure, clear from the way she spoke of her father and the Vala. “So, you’ll wait till your father comes to find you then?” he asked. “Or do you go back to Lord Aulë’s mansion?”

She frowned, looking at the Trees. “My father will be there for days. I was meant to go and find somewhere to stay within the town – he knows a few people, he comes here often. But I had a mind to go up into the hills rather.”

“Up into the hills and do what?” he asked, bemused.

She shook her head, smiled. “I have no idea. See what’s there, I suppose.” She hesitated, giving something thought, then added, “Would you like to come with me, Prince of Tirion?”

He almost jumped, it felt strange hearing one of his formal titles coming out of her mouth. She was not made for formality or bowing in servile respect. “Just up into the hills? But wouldn’t your father mind?” 

Fëanáro could have kicked himself as the words left his mouth and waited for her to pour scorn on him. Instead she gave him a surprised look and shook her head. “Why, no. My father knows I can look after myself. I imagine yours knows the same about you?”

“I think he’s learned that, yes,” Fëanáro said on a gust of laughter, scrambling to his feet as she was already getting up. “Though even he would be surprised to find me going off into the hills with a girl whose name I don’t even know. What do I call you, Mahtan’s daughter, sculptor in stone?”

She picked up the pack she had put down before speaking to him and slung it easily over her shoulder. Some final stray beams of light from Laurelin caught her hair and it gleamed like fire. “I wondered when you would ask,” she said, eyes dancing. “You can be formal and call me Mahtan’s daughter, if you wish. But if you’d rather dispense with the formal, you can use my given name and call me Nerdanel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Red Lasbelin


End file.
